


every version of yourself

by starblessed



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/M, Falling In Love, Friendship/Love, Kissing, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:55:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26097472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starblessed/pseuds/starblessed
Summary: He doesn’t demand. Gene’s mouth is as gentle as the touch grazing Babe’s jaw, lingering for as long as possible before pulling away. When he does, Babe’s eyes are wide; he doesn’t realize he’s been holding his breath until he exhales, shuddering and startled, against Gene’s jaw.“Ah, Jesus,” he mutters. “That was better than I imagined.”-----------A selection of "Kiss Prompts" from my tumblr, himbowelsh!
Relationships: Babe Heffron/Eugene Roe, Joseph Liebgott/David Kenyon Webster, Lewis Nixon/Richard Winters, Renee LeMaire/Eugene Roe, Shifty Powers/Floyd Talbert
Comments: 4
Kudos: 42





	1. baberoe   //   love like a fantasy

**Author's Note:**

> Of course, the characters in this fic are based off of their fictional portrayals from the miniseries Band of Brothers, and I mean no disrespect to the real-life veterans!
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [himbowelsh](http://himbowelsh.tumblr.com/)!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _1\. breaking the kiss to say something, staying so close that you’re murmuring into each other’s mouths  
>  14\. starting with a kiss meant to be gentle, ending up in passion _

It all happens so suddenly that Babe’s mind is barely able to keep up. He registers it all in flashes, one after the other, culminating in another body pressed firmly against his.

Gene’s eyes, impossible dark, as they lingered on him; the way his voice dropped as he muttered something, turning away; the feeling of bone and tendon beneath Babe’s fingertips when he caught Gene’s wrist, tugging him back; surprise on Gene’s face, raw as an open wound, melting into something tender as their gazes held each other.

One of them moved first — god help Babe if he could say who. _One_ of them crossed the gap, falling into a magnetic current and letting it pull them close. Whether Babe found the nerve or Gene proved his own fearlessness, the end result was the same.

Gene’s lips, when they find his, are chapped; they taste like pomegranates and vanilla. His mouth is warm, and the hand on Babe’s cheek is gentle.

His mind takes so long to catch up with how it happened because he’s frozen on the here-and-now. There’s a firework show going on inside his head, fizzling between their lips like bubbling soda. Choirs of angels don’t sing in his ears; Gene is his own goddamn symphony, and Babe wants to memorize every note.

He doesn’t demand. Gene’s mouth is as gentle as the touch grazing Babe’s jaw, lingering for as long as possible before pulling away. When he does, Babe’s eyes are wide; he doesn’t realize he’s been holding his breath until he exhales, shuddering and startled, against Gene’s jaw.

“Ah, Jesus,” he mutters. “That was better than I imagined.”

“You imagined it?” They’re so close, Babe can feel the rumble of Gene’s words against his mouth. He grins in spite of himself.

“You kidding me?” A hand settles on Gene’s waist, pulling him closer. Geez, it’s not just his wrist — Gene’s hips are bony too, like he’s made of sharp angles and jagged edges. How can someone so beautiful be so gentle? Babe’s mind is still racing, fighting to come to terms with what just happened. He knows one thing for sure: Gene Roe just kissed him, and somehow he isn’t dreaming.

“Gene,” he mutters, bowing his head until his forehead meets Gene’s own. “I imagined it every damn day of my life.”

A shuddering inhale rattles against Gene’s lips, and then he’s kissing Babe again. The force, the hunger, the need behind his lips… he presses it into Babe’s mouth, letting it bleed into his skin wherever their hungry bodies touch. Again, he’s not demanding, but Babe is eager to give. His mouth moves against Gene, building up heat as they nip and pull at each other. Breath is an afterthought, so unimportant that it might as well not exist. When they finally have to part, Babe’s chest burning like a clay oven, he’s barely got a breath in before Gene is rambling, “Babe, Babe, Babe,” against his lips.

“Oh my god,” he pants, “I wanna hear you say my name forever.”

“Babe,” Gene insists, and Babe’s hand tightens around his hip like a lifeline.

“You’re so beautiful, Gene. So —“ He breaks off to press a quick, desperate kiss to Gene’s lips, before murmuring into his mouth, _“Beautiful,_ god, you’re killing me…”

Gene’s hands suddenly slip into the back pockets of his jeans. There’s no excuse for the noise Babe makes, breathy and sharp, like a startled animal; he feels Gene chuckle, accidentally kisses teeth instead of mouth, and in return Babe just pulls him closer. He’s out to kill him — to drive him well and truly out of his mind, like he was ever in it to begin with — and the worst part is, Babe wants to let him.

Gene’s symphony rages in his ears. He’s gone from gentle, like a hymn, to the choirs of God calling for divine justice. Every brush of skin singes Babe like hellfire; when Gene sucks his lip into his mouth, he moans like a sinner, and God, does it feel good.

 _I love you,_ he thinks… but there’s three words he can’t moan against Gene’s lips. _Never knew it was possible to love someone like this… but my god, do I love you._


	2. winnix   //   revelations made in twilight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _6\. lazy morning kisses before they’ve even opened their eyes, still mumbling half-incoherently, not wanting to wake up_

It was yet another late night, though Lewis would hardly call himself proud of it. Blanche had been fixated on Christmas in July recently. Another of her flights of fancy, which swooped in and out as eagerly as when she was a little girl… except now she had the means to indulge her whims. It would be a grave insult, she declared, for her brother to skip out on her party, when she was holding it so close to home. Blanche took things like that personally. If Lewis didn’t go, he’d still be hearing about it come actual Christmastime. 

So, reluctantly, he suited up and left Dick to his work around sundown. Dick saw him off with an appreciative survey of his tux, asking if he should wait up; no need, Lewis told him, since Blanche’s parties always ran late. Dick returned to his desk, and a daunting stack of paperwork, calling a goodbye as Lewis stepped out the door.

When he stumbled back home, sometime after two, Dick was still right where he’d left him. The size of his workload had decreased; the crick in Dick’s neck hadn’t, given the awkward angle he was slumped over the desk, drooling onto a Manila folder.

Leaning against the doorframe, Lewis cleared his throat. When it failed to rouse him, he spoke his lover’s name gently.

“Dick. Hey.”

Dick didn’t stir. His only acknowledgement was a soft exhale, ruffling the papers on his desk.

A fond smile pulled at his lips as Lewis stepped further into the room. He couldn’t resist the urge to admire for a moment. Dick always looked so peaceful when he was asleep — tranquil, carefree, like a different man altogether. Christ, Lewis would have given fifty years off his life if Dick could look like that all the time. If he could just run a hand across his brow and wipe away the worries there forever, like those radio pastors who claim to heal terminal illness with just a touch…

His face was slack, giving nothing away. Was he dreaming? Lewis couldn’t help but wonder what thoughts could be drifting through his head… and, on that gentle note, how long Dick had been dozing here, if he was deep enough asleep to dream.

Having Dick wake up tomorrow aching was just unacceptable. Breaking the spell, Lewis stepped forward, placing a hand on Dick’s shoulder to shake him gently. “Alright, you. Rise and shine. This isn’t a bed at the Ritz Carlton, you’re gonna feel it in the morning. Come on, Dick.”

His lover stirred, just enough to shift against the desk’s surface. His face smushed up against the folder, brow scrunching. It was so endearing, so utterly un-Dicklike, that Lewis couldn’t help grinning. Even as he leaned down to press a kiss to Dick’s pouting lips, his touch was light. “Come on, sweetheart,” he urged, mouth shifting to hover near his ear. “Wake up.”

Dick hummed, turning his face just enough to see him with hazy, half-opened eyes. “Lew?” he murmured.

“Good morning.” Lewis knee he was smiling like the cat who got the cream, but it couldn’t be helped. Fondness hummed within him like the buzz of champagne, overriding any other emotion. How did he become the luckiest man in the world? Blanche got to go home to her townhouse and her dogs; he came home every night to the best man in the world.

Groggily, Dick shifted, slowly taking stock of himself. When he realized where he was, his brow furrowed. Lewis chuckled at his wince as he straightened up, spine crackling with the unwilling movement. Maybe they were getting old after all. “How was the party?” Dick murmured, rubbing at his jaw.

“Terrible. You weren’t there.” Before Dick could see it coming, Lewis gave in to that terrible, overwhelming fondness. His mouth caught Dick’s in an easy swoop. For just a moment, Dick tensed against him, taken by surprise at it all… but then his hand came up, cupping the back of Lewis’s neck. As always, he was impossibly tender. When Dick smiled into the kiss, Lewis ran a hand through his already-sleep-rumpled hair, practically worshipping him.

“Mmm,” Dick sighed, after they broke apart to regard each other. “Keep doing that, and I could stay here forever.”

“Come to bed with me,” is all Lewis said, running a hand along his lover’s shoulders.

The next morning — well, that dawn, considering it was already early morning when they made it to bed — rose bright and clear. As always, Dick was up with the sun. He slipped out of bed, only a little sore from his awkward position the night before, and started his morning routine. By ten o’clock, he’d already had his morning coffee, started breakfast, and settled on plans for a lazy Sunday at home.

The omelets were ready and waiting in the kitchen. He stepped into their shared bedroom, feet silent against the carpeted floor. As he approached the bedside, he could just make out Lewis’s face under a mess of stubble and unruly bed head.

“Lew,” he chimed, laying a hand on his back. All he got for his trouble was a low moan. Smiling, Dick leaned in, fitting his lips easily to Lewis’s own.

They lingered for a moment, Lewis kissing back without really comprehending what was going on. When Dick pulled away, he found a set of dark eyes, half-lidded and blinking up at him.

“Now we’re even,” he declared, giving his lover’s shoulder a light pat. “Come on. Rise and shine.”

“Mmm,” Lewis muttered. “Don’t wanna.”

“Breakfast is ready.”

That got him to perk up, quick as a whip… but when Dick smirked at him, Lewis sunk back against the pillow once again, a hint of slyness creeping over his face.

“I don’t know,” he mused. “I might need a little more encouragement.”

With a tolerant huff, Dick swept back in once again, and their lips found each other like muscle memory.


	3. webgott // smouldering like fire underneath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _5\. hands on the other person’s back, fingertips pressing under their top, drawing gentle circles against that small strip of bare skin that make them break the kiss with a gasp_

When the heat creeps under Webster’s skin, driving him on and burning him up… christ, those are the moments the balance of control shifts, and the ground beneath Liebgott’s feet feels dangerously off kilter.

He lets his head drop back as the other man sucks at his neck, mouth practically searing his vulnerable skin. It takes all of Joe’s effort not to moan… and even then, he makes a noise through his teeth that gives him away. _Shit_ , did they teach Web to do that in prep school? Is Harvard offering classes on how to drive somebody out of their mind using nothing but tongue? If a thousand sensations weren’t running through his brain at once, shorting out every nerve capable of logical thought, he’d try to put up a fight, to give him hell back… but Webster’s got him pressed up against a wall, hands digging roughly into his shoulders, and it’s all Joe can do to think straight.

“Jesus, Web,” he hisses — maybe a little breathless, but Webster’s got enough to worry about right now. “You tryin’ to take this up as a career or something?”

“You’re such an ass,” Webster snarls against his neck. Joe laughs — loud and sharp, the sound stumbling over itself. Webster’s fingers tighten, and they’ll probably leave bruises tomorrow, but hell if Joe can make himself care.

“Where we headed?” he mutters, hands creeping over Webster’s broad shoulders. He doesn’t pull away, and it’s a thrill to touch him like this — so brazenly, without shame. Touch isn’t something Webster gives freely; he keeps to himself by preference. Joe likes to experiment with other peoples’ boundaries, testing exactly what it’ll take before they snap back; somehow, Webster always manages to take him by surprise. Sometimes he doesn’t want to be touched at all… and sometimes he throws himself forward without a second’s hesitation, inviting Joe to do the same.

Fuck, he makes it look easy.

“Web,” Joe emphasizes again, when the man seems not to hear him. He’s too busy sucking bruises into Joe’s collar — which he doesn’t mind, hell no, but he’d like some damn acknowledgement. “Where? You want us to strip up against this wall —“

“No. No.” Webster pulls back, breathing heavily. His lips are flushed, a string of saliva still connecting them to Joe’s collar. Everywhere he kissed feels like it’s on fire. His pupils are blown, baby blue almost swallowed up by heat and lust — goddamn, if that isn’t a sight a poet like Web would want to write about. “We could, umm — we could — barracks —“

“Right, with the twelve other guys we share with. Better let ‘em make popcorn before we start, huh?”

“I don’t know, Joe, damn it —“

Joe seizes Webster by the collar of his shirt, tugging him forward. Webster is too startled to protest — when Joe tows him out of the hallway and around the corner, slipping into a nearby storage closet, he can do nothing but follow.

There’s a broken broom in the corner, and a few mops leaning against the wall… but they’ve got privacy, if you don’t mind a spider audience. “Ain’t the classiest place, but it’ll do.”

“Glad to know you’re a cheap date,” Webster observes, his hands already tugging at Joe’s hips. Joe rolls into him, laughing when Webster groans. 

“Think again,” he mutters, hand knotting in dark curls. When Webster smiles, he feels the last of his self-control give way.

For a little while, that’s all they do — bouncing off each other in those claustrophobic four walls, sucking bruises into each other’s skin and muffling groans and curses into flushed skin. It’s rough, and hot, and exactly the release Joe didn’t know he needed.

Nothing about it is gentle. Nothing is serious. Whatever the mood is, it sure isn’t… intimate. Not really.

Which is why he’s not expecting it when Webster touches him.

Really touches him. It’s Joe’s fault, for losing track of Webster’s hands a while back… but he was so busy trailing kisses along his collar, and Webster’s hands move so much that there’s almost no point wondering where they’ll go next. Joe’s been at it for a while, long enough that Webster has gone still against the wall, like he’s caught in a trance. His eyes are shut, breathing heavy… and Joe’s so focused on drawing his ecstasy out that when Webster’s hands slip underneath his shirt, he doesn’t see it coming.

The effect’s immediate. Joe breaks the kiss with a shallow gasp, leaving a red mark against Webster’s jaw. For a second, it seems like he doesn’t notice — he’s still lost in space somewhere, even while his fingers trail gently along Joe’s spine. 

Skin-to-skin contact, in an area he’s never been touched before… and there’s nothing rough about it. Nothing hungry. Nothing demanding. Webster’s just… Jesus, what’s he _doing?_

“Joe,” Webster says softly — noticing for the first time how shell-shocked his partner looks. “What’s wrong?”

“You — I —“ Webster’s still touching him, and Joe can’t find the words. Another sigh leaves him, heavy and uneasy. When he tries to draw in a breath, it shudders. “Take it easy, Web.”

“I am.” Webster’s voice is as soft as his touch. He looks absolutely fucking debauched, hair a mess and lips flushed almost purple, but he wears it too well. A bit of the lust has faded from his eyes; Joe can find the blue again, and he’s looking straight through him.

“You don’t need to —“ Christ, he thought he knew what this was. Why’s he reacting like this? “You,” he says again, and unconsciously leans into the touch. Webster seems to get it, all at once. His palm goes flat against Joe’s back, and traces a broad circle along his spine. Joe can’t help shuddering.

“Do you like that?” Webster asks, a smirk playing at his lips.

“What d’you mean?”

“Do you like…” Now it’s both of Webster’s hands, fingers splayed out. They’re tracing tiny circles into the area above Joe’s sharp hipbones. He’s draining the stress out of Joe’s body through touch alone, and it scares him how easily he gives into it.

“Joe,” Webster says, so gently that Joe’s eyes flutter. When he forces them back open, it’s to Webster staring at him intently, and a sudden hand cupping the side of his face. Again, he’s gentle, so goddamn gentle.

“I’m here,” says Webster, and his fingers run through Joe’s hair. This time, when Webster kisses him, he _melts._

To think, he thought he knew what was going on here. Thought he had it under control. Thought when all was said and done, they could walk outta here like nothing happened.

Shows what he knows, doesn’t it?


	4. winnix  //  apologetics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _11\. when one stops the kiss to whisper “I’m sorry, are you sure you-” and they answer by kissing them more_

Lew takes him by surprise.

It’s not the first time, and it certainly won’t be the last… but Dick is no less prepared, when his best friend’s hand suddenly pulls him back. 

He turns, mouth open in question, but there’s no real chance to ask. Lew doesn’t make another movement, but his face screams everything Dick needs to hear. A wistfulness, a desperation, all clouded over by fear too visceral to form anything but a chain. It binds Lew in place, binds his feet on the ground and his hand on his wrist — turns every muscle to stone, and the wanting in his eyes is the only thing that wavers.

If it weren’t for Lew’s open eyes, Dick might believe time had stopped entirely.

He imagined that, sometimes, in the head of battle — especially during the Bastogne barrages, with explosions lighting up the night and shrapnel raining like deadly snow on all sides. What if it all simply stopped? He imagined the bullets frozen in midair, a man’s scream suspended halfway out of his lips, weapons raised to shoot but never able to fire. In his dreams, he wandered through it all — through the statues of his men, the shadows of his enemies, all paralyzed just so the world could have a chance to breathe. Like toy soldiers on a carpet battlefield… and how often, when he was a child, did he wage elaborate wars across the living room floor, maneuvering each one into place?

Fear isn’t visceral on a tin soldier’s face, however. He’s reduced to the smallest fraction of himself, barely two inches upright, and that tiny body can’t contain the true horrors of war.

Real soldiers hold it all. Everything they feel, everything they see… all that they were before the war, and all that they could be after. It gets locked away inside, buried like a time capsule deep down, and the rules of the US Army state you can’t dig that box up until armistice day.

Lew has claimed a section of Dick’s footlocker for his own, hiding away treasure upon contraband treasure… but here’s one thing he’s never been able to close the lid on. He is unapologetically himself, even in the middle of war. He wears his emotions like a harlequin mask, shameless and flamboyant in ways that sometimes scares Dick. He could never imagine looking at someone the way his best friend looks at him now — eyes wide and reverent, laying himself completely unshrouded before him.

Lew looks afraid now, but not of himself.

Afraid of… what? Of _him?_

“Lew…” Like an exhale, the word passes his lips to hover in the air between them. His friend flinches, but he doesn’t pull away.

Slowly, Dick turns in place (like a wind-up soldier toy) to face him. While Lew’s grip on his wrist remains steady, nothing else about him seems to be. Only his gaze doesn’t flinch, eyes like dark coals, and penetrating as ever. Dick fights the urge to meet his gaze head-on. Instead, he reaches up to where their hands meet. His free hand finds the inside of Lew’s wrist, and those steady eyes flutter shut.

“What is it?” he asks softly. Lew swallows hard, throat bobbing with it, and shakes his head.

“You really have to ask? C’mon, Dick — give yourself more credit.”

Dick has never held his own powers of deduction in high esteem, especially when it comes to Lewis Nixon… but he gives Lew every credit in the world. If anyone understands things without trying, it’s the man in front of him. Such a sharp mind, Dick has often thought, must be both a blessing and a curse; sometimes, Lew simply knows too much.

“You’re the intelligence officer,” he says simply. 

Lews eyes open again, and something in them flares. “You’re — you’re —“ The flame sputters. His grip tightens. “Unbelievable.”

“If you say so,” Dick replies, and somewhere in the back of his mind realizes they’re drifting towards each other. Like two magnets caught in each others’ polarity… he could probably pull away now, if he tried, but no part of him wants to.

Lew is still afraid — the tiny crinkle at the corners of his eyes betray him — but he looks brave, too. These moments, Dick adores him the most… when Lewis Nixon stands fast against the world, and doesn’t falter, even though he can’t see what lies ahead clearly. For someone who makes a business of knowing things, not knowing has to sometimes be worse… but Lew never admits he’s frightened. Not out loud, at least. He’s brave, in his own impossible way, until the very end.

He might be the bravest man Dick knows. He realizes it in the split second before the gap closes between them and Lew’s mouth slams into his own.

For a minute, they’re breathless. Chapped lips, hot skin and eager hands, a subtle gasp that chokes in both throats… every sensation has been reduced to touch, to feeling, and Dick feels it all with an intensity that leaves him floored.

Lew looks about the same way when they pull apart for breath. Both their chests heave, breaths ragged in throats suddenly too tight to support them. Dick has never seen his best friend’s eyes so wide, or vulnerability so plain on his face, like an open wound.

“I —“ he murmurs, and pants another shallow breath. “I’m sorry, I — I shouldn’t‘ve, do you —“

Dick cuts him off by pulling him back in.

This one is different. They’re not fighting against each other; there’s no sense of desperation. After a moment with his body drawn tense, brain whirring so loudly that it’s almost audible… Lew relaxes into the embrace. His body goes slack all at once; Dick holds him, even though he feels like he could go the same way. This is a line they never thought they’d cross, but now that they have, it feels right. They were skirting around it for so long — as though it were a giant hole in the floor, with both of them trying desperately to pretend it wasn’t there, until one finally fell through and took the other down with him. Falling feels inexorably right… and if it means falling for Lewis Nixon, Dick thinks he could tumble forever.

When they pull away, Lew is grinning; the emotion on his face is so raw that it gouges Dick like a blade. He feels it too, a warmth spreading through every part of him… and while the part of him that will always be a soldier wants to force it down on instinct, he dares give himself up to happiness instead.

If the lingering burn of his lips proves anything, it’s how _wonderful_ it is to feel.


	5. shiftytab // sacrificial bagel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _16\. when one person’s face is scrunched up, and the other one kisses their lips/nose/forehead_

**Things Shifty Powers Is:**

  * an excellent judge of character
  * fundamentally honest
  * more mischievous than anyone realizes on first glance
  * not about to admit to eating the last banana muffin



“Come on,” Floyd sighs, crossing his arms. It dawns on him too late that he’s assumed the exact same posture, and same tone, as his mother when she used to scold him for misbehaving as a kid. That… should probably worry him more than it does. A problem for another day, he decides, and something for Ma to be smug about at the next family reunion. Shifty, who hasn’t met his family yet, isn’t any the wiser — but apparently is immune to the Mom Glare.

“ _Someone_ did it. It wasn’t me, it wasn’t the neighbors, it wasn’t the mouse in the walls. Who else could’ve eaten the muffin, Shifty?”

He doesn’t outright say he didn’t do it; he just doesn’t admit it. “It was a mighty tempting muffin.”

“Tempting enough to lure you in?”

The corners of Shifty’s mouth twitch. “Now, I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t have to.” Now that Floyd is staring at Shifty’s mouth, he spots it — crumbs at the very corner of his lips. Maybe he’s no lawyer, but he knows a closed case when he sees it. Pointedly, he swipes at his own mouth. Shifty mirrors the gesture; when his hand comes away with the damning evidence, he knows he’s caught out.

“Now, Tab,” Shifty says slowly, fighting the grin that threatens to take over his face. “I know you were meaning to save it for breakfast, but you can’t leave a treat like that out on the counter overnight —“

“It was in the _box_. The box which is now empty. Did it get up and walk away?”

“Sure did.” Shifty holds out for a moment longer before breaking into a full grin. “Into my mouth. And my, was it sweet.”

“I don’t believe you!” Floyd huffs.

Shifty nods, and at least he’s taking the crime seriously. Somehow, it’d be worse if he showed no shame whatsoever; but as Floyd slumps down on the bed, dejected, his hand finds the sweet spot between his shoulder blades and begins to rub smooth, comforting circles. Shifty’s victory entitles him to be smug, but of course he wouldn’t dream of it. When Tab tilts his head to sneak a peek at him, his boyfriend’s smile is warm as ever, but he still looks halfway to apologetic.

“It really was a wonderful muffin.”

“I know it was,” Floyd concurs mournfully.

“The sort that makes you wanna go back for more.”

“The bakery’s closed on Mondays.” Exactly why he was saving the last muffin for breakfast today. Yeah, it’s not a big deal, but it was something he was looking forward to; the only other option in their pantry is _oatmeal_.

Shifty nods, brows furrowed, as if giving the situation as much thought as it warrants. He’s good at pretending to look thoughtful. Floyd’s learned to pick up on all the subtle cues which give away that he’s being teased — the curve of Shifty’s mouth, the dimple in his cheek, the way he won’t quite meet his eyes. When Floyd nudges him with his shoulder, Shifty huffs. His gaze flickers up to catch Floyd’s own, and that’s the last straw. His eyes crinkle, nose scrunching up in the split second before a smile… but Floyd catches him before he gets the chance. Sweeping in, his mouth captures Shifty’s own. Hands find his shoulders as Shifty nearly loses his balance, but Floyd is right there to steady him; on instinct, Shifty inhales through his nose. Floyd’s hand cups his jaw, coaxing him closer. Every brush of exposed skin simmers with warmth, and Floyd soaks it in like a freezing man. The faint taste of banana lingers on Shifty’s lips; he consumes that too, exploring and hungry.

When they part for breath, Shifty still grips him for balance, his cheeks flushed a deep red. His eyes are hazy.

“Now, I’m… not sure I earned that.”

“You deserve it,” Floyd replies, smiling wickedly. “And _I_ deserved a taste of my muffin.”

Shifty’s brows quirk as he considers this. “Well,” he muses, thumb lightly massaging Floyd’s collarbone. When he looks up, his gaze is deceptively innocent. “You still hungry?”

Grinning, Floyd goes back in for another bite.


	6. gene + renee  //  in the violet hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _6\. lazy morning kisses before they’ve even opened their eyes, still mumbling half-incoherently, not wanting to wake up_

_Crimson speckling the winter snow, as ashy flakes continue to flutter through the air… a curtain of suffocating disease, falling like shrouds over frozen bodies… without mercy, as he gazes down at hands stained with blood, without remorse… and suddenly fire pressing against his back, overtaking him so suddenly there is no time to think, and when he goes to scream he inhales a lungful of snow and ash and death —_ ****

He wakes with a tight chest and pounding heart, a moan halfway out his throat. He nearly bolts upright before catching himself — literally, as the Aspirin bottle on the bedside table goes tumbling to the floor when he smacks it.

Gene’s nightmares have never been tranquil. He goes very, very still for a moment, only breathing hard as he fights to get it back under control. He’s not screaming — he never screams, like he forgot how somewhere overseas, and only trembles in the wake of another terror. Slowly, as the pulse of it fades away, Gene rubs a hand over his face. In the silence, he risks a glance over, lungs frozen in anticipation for what he’ll find.

It’s okay, though. No blue eyes stare up at him in the hazy morning light. A sigh of relief comes to him unbidden. The last way he needs to start the day off is with her sympathy, however tender it may be.

Renée is still sound asleep, despite Gene’s violent rising. Maybe she’s learning to sleep through them. The thought ought to fill him with remorse… but Gene dealt with enough of that over the countless nights Renée stayed up with him after a terror, well into the morning hours. She’s lost enough sleep over him; a bit of peace is what she deserves.

And she does look peaceful. As he studies her, a smile rises to his lips unbidden, and basks in the sky morning light. Renée sleeps on her stomach, cheek pressed against the pillow. Her blonde hair is a wild mess around her, uncombed and untamed. It catches the hint of sun filtering in through the window, flecks of gold shimmering around her like a halo. Tentatively, Gene reaches out, brushing a particularly stubborn tangle out of the way to reveal her face. Slack and tranquil, Renée’s dozing expression reveals no hint of the worries which gnaw at her during daylight hours. She always looks happier when she sleeps… like instead of visceral memories, her dreams take her somewhere further away, somewhere foreign and familiar and kind. At least one of them can find an escape in the night.

Gene’s thumb lingers over her temple. In a fit of boldness, he can’t help caressing it. Renée’s skin is smooth where her ear curves away; as he travels lower, tracing the gentle outline of her jaw, he’s struck — for the first or five-hundredth time — by how lovely she is. Any man who gets to wake up to this each morning is blessed by god… the luckiest fella in the world, no matter what they might be waking up from.

Sleep only brings nightmares, but Renée is a dream come true.

Gene just can’t help himself. The covers shift around them both as he leans down, bracing himself against one elbow; it’s the perfect position to press a kiss to Renée’s temple. He lingers there for a minute, just drinking in the sweetness of her. When he pulls back, her eyelids are just starting to flutter… but, as soon as they catch the morning glare, her face scrunches up, and she turns her head away.

“Hey, now,” he chuckles, running a hand along her shoulder. “Don’t be like that. Just trying to say good morning.”

“Good morning,” she mutters — at least, that’s what he picks out of the incomprehensible jumble muffled into her pillow.

Renée won’t be happy to see him grinning, but Gene just can’t help it. He leans down before he can stop himself, catching her again; this time, his kiss lands just by the shell of her ear. He peppers a few kisses there, trailing down her cheek, until she’s coaxed towards him on instinct. Only then does his hand move up, daring to cup the back of her head.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he admits, blinking tenderly at her. “Really. Just, uhh…”

“You couldn’t help yourself?” Her accent is thicker this early in the morning, voice still syrupy with sleep. It clings you her eyelids, weighing them down even as she blinks up at him. There’s something warm in her eyes, impossible fond and gentle, that slides over Gene’s skin like honey and leaves him feeling enveloped by Louisiana springtime. Before meeting Renée, he never even thought of himself as a morning person.

“Can’t blame me,” is all he replies, smiling, before going back in for one more. This time, she catches him, and responds in turn. Renée leans up into his lips, hand coming up to caress the back of his head. For a moment, there is only the soft slide of sheets around them, her fingers gentle in his hair, the taste of their slightly-stale kisses, and Renée’s heartbeat like a sluggish drumbeat between them.

When they do pull apart, neither of them are eager to go. They stay in each other’s arms, his hand threading through her bed head, while she massages circles into the back of his neck. She sighs against his collarbone, eyes fluttering Shut once again. “I don’t want to get up,” she murmurs. “Can we not stay like this all morning?”

It’s a tempting option. _Too_ tempting.

“Can’t do that,” he mutters, pulling her close and resting his head against her chest. When she makes a noise of dismay, he smiles, tilting his head just enough for her to catch a flash of it. “Because,” he murmured against her collarbone, “then we’re gonna end up staying all afternoon… and all night… because I ain’t gonna be able to let you go.”

She giggles — softly at first, but harder when Gene huffs against her skin. There’s never been a nicer wake-up call. By now, the lingering adrenaline of the nightmare has faded away, chasing all its wickedness out with it, like sweeping bad luck out an open doorway. In its place is nothing but warmth, and the contentment of having Renée presses so close against him that he feels every inch of her, like a promise of the day ahead.

Waking up like this, Gene’s ready to face it. He could face anything in the world.

“Come on,” he sighs, and finally sits up, pulling her upright with him. “We gotta get outta bed sooner or later. How ‘bout breakfast?”

Just as he starts to pull away, though, Renée catches him… and this time, he’s the one surprised by lips meeting his. Renée grins into the kiss; after a minute, Gene can’t help grinning back.

“Breakfast sounds wonderful,” she declares, in the breath after they part. He huffs, cupping the back of her head, and nods in agreement.

“Ain’t no better way to start the day.”


	7. speirton  //  bruise me like a tragedy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _2\. moving around while kissing, stumbling over things, pushing each other back against the wall/onto the bed_

They can’t get the door closed fast enough. ****

As soon as it clicks shut, Carwood is on him. Ron catches him around the waist a second before his back slams into the wall. The impact jars them both to their bones; as Carwood’s arms twine around his neck, he chuckles, then groans low in his throat. Ron _knows_ , he feels it too, he gets it — the hand cupping his lover’s ass through his well-cut jeans make his intentions clear. 

“This is your fault,” Carwood murmurs against his jaw.

Ron bares his teeth. “Completely.”

“We wouldn’t be doing this —“ Carwood cuts himself off to gasp as Ron’s hand gets bolder. “If you hadn’t — at dinner —“

“Oh, I know,” Ron agrees, nodding.

Carwood doesn’t like the gesture, because it pulls him away from his present task — sucking bruises into Ron’s skin. He pauses just long enough to grunt, reeling Ron back in with a hand on the back of his neck. Obligingly, Ron curls into him. Carwood is a vision like this — eyes dark and hungry, face flushed with eagerness. Every inch of their exposed skin _burns_ where it meets, beneath suit jackets and collars. Unable to undress Ron one-handed, Carwood simply fists his free hand in his shirt and presses forward to capture his lips.

“You —“ Ron’s words are cut off by Carwood’s mouth. In seconds, he’s lost track of the thread… and all thoughts unravel before him like a tangled spiderweb, twisting him up and leaving him hanging. Carwood is the arachnid in the web. He nips and stings, sending fire racing through Ron’s veins with every shuddered breath. In moments, the headrush hits. It’s impossible to remain standing.

He only means to give Carwood a tug, message firm — can we take this to the bed? Anything else is unintentional… but Carwood isn’t expecting it, and it throws him off balance. His hip slams into the nearest desk hard. He grunts, grip tightening around Ron’s neck. For a split second, surprise flashes across his face like lightning. 

Hurting Carwood is the last thing he wants. “Are you —“

Carwood cuts him off with another fierce kiss.

He doesn’t mean to moan, but he can’t help it. Maybe that’s what seals their fate. Taken by surprise, Ron leans into Carwood, pressing him back against the desk. The wood digs into Carwood’s thighs in a way that must be uncomfortable, but Ron doesn’t realize it until Carwood pushes back and sends them both stumbling.

They don’t part — not to check where they’re going, not even to breathe. Carwood is ravenous, Ron is on fire, and everything else is just an afterthought. They stumble over the rug, unbalance the lamp, hit a chair and recoil off, slam into the dresser… but by that time, Ron can’t register the pain, with the way Carwood’s hands are dragging up and down his bare chest.

Every noise Carwood makes is a precious thing, the symphony of God at the end of the world. When Ron grazes his teeth over his carotid, Carwood moans like a wild thing. He starts to chuckle, but it cuts off in a gasp as Ron’s hand drags possessively over his skull, fingers twisting in his sparse hair.

“Oh god, I love you, I love you, Ron —“

Every word is like a firework show bursting inside Ron’s chest. He wants to hear more, wants to soak every word in and commit them to his skin like a tattoo. He wants Carwood imprinted on him forever — every touch, every bruise, every tender caress. A full-body shudder runs through Carwood, and Ron holds him close.

“You,” Carwood hisses, and they both slam back against the wall.

This impact actually hurts. It rattles something inside Ron’s skull the same way it rattles the painting on the wall. In the next room, there’s surely an unsuspecting hotel occupant, severely confused about what the hell he’s hearing… but other people couldn’t be farther from Ron’s mind, when he’s got the most important person in the world right here, flushed and furious before him. Carwood commits to his neck, sucking bruises there with fervor; Ron tilts his head to let him.

Something about holding still feels like a betrayal to the instincts driving them. They continue stumbling, hitting the dresser again, then the chaise. Ron falls back, landing hard on his tailbone… but in a second, Carwood is on top of him, and any pain melts away. He loses himself in it for a moment — the sensation, the ferocity, the fury. Carwood keeps this side of himself hidden so well, but Ron saw it from the first. He’s always been able to see him, even before he understood why he was looking.

Now, Carwood won’t let him forget it. The world is him, him, him… and Ron needs nothing else.

“I knew you’d like that at dinner,” he snarls against his lover’s neck. Carwood’s back arches, and his grip on Ron’s shoulders tighten. There’s no warning before his weight shifts, taking Ron with it. They both tumble to the floor, a jumble of limbs and grunts and lips still interlocked.

Carwood’s going to kill him, Ron realizes, and not for the first time welcomes death with open arms. Could there be a better way to die?

“Ow,” he can’t help saying, when Carwood kisses a sore spot on his shoulder. His lover pulls back just enough to blink at him.

“Are you alright?”

Dim lighting and heavy atmosphere combined cannot mask Carwood’s concern. In that moment, Ron loves him more than he ever has.

“Yeah,” he replies, pulling himself up to press another kiss to Carwood’s waiting lips. “I’m just fine.”


End file.
